


We Can Meet in the Middle

by knightlyss



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, also someone hug the children, canon compliant for the most part except everyone lives, everyone is happy, ish, more or less, probably way too much angst in this, season three divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6527602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlyss/pseuds/knightlyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He breathes a little easier when he finally makes the connection. Promises are pretty much the same as the engagement rings he's learned about from textbooks on the Ark. They mostly glossed over it in school, considering their lack of importance in a world that valued air over materialism, and Earth is turning out to be a whole new experience in more ways than one. There is actual courting going on now, like in the stories he's always told O, and no one has to worry about the air supply or how many children to have. People are honest to God in love. </p><p>It's kind of awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Meet in the Middle

 

**i.**

Of all the grounder traditions he's heard and seen so far, this is the one that has him flustered and honest to god wondering briefly whether sanity had fled Earth eons ago.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks, earning him a smack on the arm from his little sister, who is proudly sporting a new necklace that looks more like a polished disc made of scrap metal and stones than jewelry. It hangs delicately from her neck in a leather string, resting somewhere beneath her collarbone, sliding across her shirt as she moves to let her arm fall back down to her side.

“It's a Promise. Lincoln gave it to me,” she says, smile threatening to overtake her face as she grabs a hold of it and holds it out for him to look closer. It's some kind of metal, and there's a few stones scattered on it, embedded in the surface, creating a circle. The stones give off a bluish tinge, making her eyes stand out even more against the dark paint on her face. He should let her leave to wash it off; She's probably tired after having been away for a week with Lincoln and several of the Trikru and other camp members, but he can't help himself. He feels his chest puff out, back straightening.

“A Promise,” he repeats, raising an eyebrow, trying for nonchalant. He wants her to say it, even if he is terrified of this new theory that has suddenly presented itself.

“Bell, please,” she scoffs, straightening herself as her smile fades a little. Things are are tense between them still, and he can't say he has only Mt. Weather or the war to blame, but damn him if he doesn't have something to say about this. She continues before he gets a chance to. “I can make my own decisions. Besides, I'm old enough to get married.”

It's his turn to scoff, and she narrows her eyes at him, crossing her arms and resting her weight on one leg, practically one second away from letting her foot tap rhythmically into the ground. From afar, he's certain that it looks like he's going to get a scolding, so he takes a deep breath and puts on his big brother face, refusing to back down from the challenge and letting her win.

“Are you telling me that this is Lincoln's way of proposing? Without even speaking to me? Without asking me?”

“Do _you_ want to marry Lincoln?”

“That's not what this is about, O, and you know it,” he scowls, refusing to admit to himself that he sounds like a cross between a petulant child and a kicked puppy. Of course Lincoln is worth it. He's earned everyone's trust finally, and he is on the mend after everything that's passed, and he is family just like the rest of the hundred. Bellamy was expecting them to tie the knot some time in the future, fearing it even, but not like this. Not without telling him, leaving him out of the equation. _My sister, my responsibility._

She's studying him with her head tilted to the side, no doubt trying to read his mind. He stares right back, jaw tightening and crossing his own arms, silently daring her to continue the conversation. The rational side of him is begging him to seek out Lincoln and take it up with the man himself, so that he can take out his frustrations on him instead. Do a pissing contest or whatever the hell will make him feel better. His sister doesn't deserve to be dragged into this despite how much she is a part of it. The other side of him is much more prone to violence, and he is already trying to calculate how many times he can beat up Lincoln without her noticing, when she speaks again.

“Go float yourself, Bellamy,” she sighs without malice, turning around on her heel and leaving him standing at the edge of the camp alone. He feels a small part of him break, even though he knows she didn't mean it quite as harshly as all the other times she's said it. She's frustrated with his reaction. Hell, he is goddamn close to kicking himself for not letting himself be happy on her behalf. She's earned her happiness, fought with tooth and nail to become the strong woman she is today, and he's acting like a child because he didn't get to partake in one tiny insignificant old-as-balls ritual?

Maybe he should find a way to float himself.

Instead he forces himself to relax, takes a deep breath and heads towards medical. The party arrived back at camp Jaha little less than an hour ago with minor cuts and bruises, Octavia and three others being among the happy few that have escaped completely unscathed. Lincoln is sitting quietly in one corner of the room when he enters, paint absent and being fixed up by Clarke, who is bent intently over Lincoln's arm, poking a sowing needle through his skin. She mumbles an apology when he hisses and looks up, offering a small smile, and the grounder takes it gladly, exchanging an assuring smile with the blonde doctor. Of course, he tenses up again when he sees Bellamy, eyes widening a little but thankfully not showing any fear. Clarke tries to apologize again, the words dying in her throat when she follows Lincoln's eye line and spots Bellamy at the entrance, and her face is torn between amusement and worry. Does he really look that bad?

“Can we talk?”

“Of course,” Lincoln nods and turns his attention to him fully, seeming to relax a little in his spot on the bed while Clarke does her best I'm-not-here impression, head bowed over his arm again, face hidden behind a veil of blonde hair. Bellamy clears his throat nervously and steps inside, thankful that it's only the three of them inside the clinic, since everyone else has already been patched up. He finds a chair and sits it down a few feet away from them, placing himself in it and immediately leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands, inhaling deeply, gathering courage. When he looks up again, Lincoln is looking openly at him, a little wary but mostly curious.

“Octavia told me the good news,” he finally says, settling for vague and non-threatening while leaning back in his chair. Lincoln nods, a small smile on his lips, and then turns his head to thank Clarke, who has finished putting him together. She smiles and starts packing up her equipment, carrying it over and away from them to the far side of the room to get it sterilized and leave them in peace, not once looking back at them as she does so. It's times like these when Bellamy is struck by how thankful he is for her. She's always understood him best, reading into him and seeing just how much he needs from her in so many different situations. She knows he'd rather do this privately but not alone, and his heart aches with how respectful she is.

“ _Is_ it good news?” Lincoln asks in a way that can only be described as his, so careful and gentle, prodding the receiver into truth telling. Bellamy can't help but feel a pang of regret at all the hatred and tortured memories that still hang between them among the respect and friendship.

“I may have been a bit... unenthusiastic,” he says carefully, studying the other man's reaction. Lincoln only smiles, damn him.

“Understandable.”

“Unfair,” he counters, folding his hands in his lap and tilting his head back, closing his eyes. He should've handled it better, he knows that. Lincoln snorts at that, making him smile a little. He could do worse in terms of brothers. “I told her she was too young. Practically behaved like I still owned her, even though she's never actually been mine to have.”

It's been bothering him for months, the letting go part. Octavia is an adult, a grown woman, perfectly capable of taking care of herself, thank you very much. He should know, he raised her. Therein lies the problem, he supposes. Being a father figure without actually having that claim on her the same way other adults do has undoubtedly messed with his head in his younger years, slowly bleeding into adulthood and messing with their original dynamic, even after they landed on Earth. They're much better off now than they were in the dropship days, with something of a partnership between them. Her and Lincoln have had a crucial part in helping bridge the distance between Skai and Trikru, and other clans are slowly but steadily offering up their alliance. They are included in meetings with Chancellor Kane, and their voices are valued just as much as the adults. Peace is on the horizon, and much of it is in thanks to the the woman whom he still has a hard time separating from the little girl living hidden under the floor.

“Octavia did tell me to wait until I had your permission,” Lincoln admits, looking almost sheepish as he does so, raising his good arm to rub his hand on his neck. Bellamy's brows furrow.

“She said that?”

“She informed me that your tradition demands permission from her next of kin.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Bellamy agrees and turns his attention back to his friend, smiling a little. Lincoln nods and smiles back, flushing a little, and he can't help himself. “Why didn't you ask then?”

“Same reason you gave up trying to make choices for her.”

He feels a flush of his own creep up his neck, sure as hell that it is visible if the heat in his face is any indication to go by. Lincoln only smiles still, looking at him as one would a trusted ally, a brother, and everything clicks into place finally. He's always known Octavia was from another world, known it from the way she reacted to his fairytales of Earth, from the way she took the lifestyle of the grounders to heart, learned to speak their language in record time, lived as freely as she could. She was always his sister, but she was also her own person, and she belonged to Earth, always had. She chose her own way, and Lincoln respected her enough to let her choose this one as well without having to consult anyone but herself and her heart.

Oh.

_Oh._

He snorts at himself, trying to reign in his laugh. Lincoln smiles wider and hops off the bed, stretching a little after sitting for so long. He reaches out for Bellamy, who accepts the offered hand and pulls himself up, and they pull each other close with slaps on the back and hand grasping forearms, equally big smiles on their faces. Clarke walks past them with a smile of her own then, having finished sterilizing the equipment, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like _idiots_ under her breath, and he can't bring himself to wipe the expression of gratitude off his face.

They walk out of the clinic side by side, and Lincoln gives his shoulder a squeeze before heading off in the direction of the entrance to the dining hall where a now clean Octavia is unsurprisingly waiting for him. He slides his hand to her neck and pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her hair and whispering something to her, before letting her go and walking inside. Octavia lets him go, turning her gaze to Bellamy instead, and he crosses the camp slowly but surely, and she is there waiting for him with open arms that he doesn't deserve but he tugs her close anyway, and they cling to each other like they used to before their nightmares happened.

“Asshole,” she mutters into his chest, and he hears the way her voice is lighter now, less weighed down with nervousness over her brother's stupid antics. The necklace is pressing into his chest, and he thinks of the wedding she'll have. The children she'll birth, the stories she'll tell them.

“Shof op, sis,” he grins, and she laughs.

 

 

**ii.**

“I can't believe she's going to marry Kane.”

“Clarke.”

“It's Stockholm Syndrome, I swear. She's always hated him.”

“Clarke-”

“And now they're suddenly getting married? I mean, you saw the pin he gave her, right? He gave her a Chancellor pin, Bellamy.”

“Clarke, listen-”

“He even had Raven help him make it.” She stops momentarily, thinking it over. “Wait, does that count as a Promise? Lincoln says only the suitor can make it, and Kane had help, so there's no way she's going to say yes with a good conscience, we can still call it all off-”

“Clarke, sit the fuck down before you slip and break your neck,” Bellamy snaps, and she stops abruptly, blue eyes fixed on his in surprise. She looks down at her feet, apparently realizing he's right, and sits down next to him on the cold roof. He found her there about an hour ago, having miraculously succeeded in climbing up the tricky surface and hiding from her mother and Kane before the ceremony. Tasked with finding her before it all began, he had searched high and low from clinic to greenhouse until he had caught a few locks of blonde hair hanging lazily off the edge of the roof of the newly appointed weapon storage building. Sighing, he had called her name, and she had kindly told him to get lost.

It had taken a couple of threats that included him throwing her over his shoulder and dumping her in the clean water supply, before she had leaned over the rooftop to give him a stinkeye so powerful that Lexa herself would have had a hard time standing upright. As it was, he was used to her anger just as much as his own, giving off an unimpressed glare himself, and she had relented, giving him directions on how to get up.

She is quiet now, arms wrapped around her knees as she stares into the woods, brows scrunched close together as she thinks so hard he can practically hear the gears turning in her head. He can understand her in a way; He had never wanted his mother to get married after his father died, and there were times when he wondered how he would've reacted if she had found love, had she still been alive. Would she have had Promises from all the men in the camp? None at all? Would they all have tried to impress her, a seamstress, with clothing?

He bites down a laugh at the image of tall and burly men sitting in a circle around a fire, teaching each other about the fabrics and colours that compliment each other, stitching flowers and leafs into shirts and dresses. Clarke turns her head to him curiously, her frown unwavering.

“It's nothing,” he assures her, shaking his head. Her expression doesn't fade, and he knows he will have to poke her a little. “Why are you so against your mother marrying Kane?”

“You're not against it?” she asks, brows shooting up. He shrugs.

“They're not a terrible match. And they love each other.”

“That's not love,” she snaps, and he hears the bitterness laced in her words. It doesn't take a genius to understand what she's talking about.

To say that mother and daughter Griffin have a strained relationship is the understatement of the century. They fall into the same category as him and Octavia did a few years earlier, all sharp edges and plenty of bite during the war. They're at peace now, but there's still a raging storm inside both women, and they go head to head at least once a month despite how much they love each other. Last month, it had been the announcement of the engagement, and it had left Clarke shaken, face a blank slate that no one could read but him. He had had to learn her inside out, and she him, in order to survive and lead together, and despite how calm she was on the outside, he knew how she still wanted to scream, to howl insults at her mother for desecrating her father's memory, to roar into the endless sky until her voice was no more.

She's past crying for her father at this point, having used up most of her tears on bitterness, and then a fresh wave when she discovered who was really behind his death, (that piece of information still shook him, despite their own actions to keep their people safe. He thought for a long time that he was the only monster), but she still has enough rage left in her to clash with the older Griffin over it. Still, Kane is not a bad man when it comes down to it, not as bad as Cage or Pike or Jaha, and it's clear that Abby rules over him just as much as he does her. It's a partnership that suits them both magnificently. Marriage makes sense.

Clarke probably knows this, but refuses to acknowledge it like the stubborn mule she is.

“I want her to be happy...” she whispers into the wind, having gone back to staring out into the woods. The sun is setting, and the trees are giving off darker and darker hues of brown and green and orange, the sky turning purple and red in the horizon. He briefly wonders if she'd rather paint the view than attend her own mother's wedding. But he knows her. She will attend out of duty, and she will enjoy it on her mother's behalf, but she won't be entirely present. Some small part of her will be locked away safely where no one can touch it, where she won't have to worry about something or someone hurting her.

“I know,” he says quietly, wrapping an arm around her. She lets him pull her a bit closer, leaning her head on his shoulder, and he turns and presses a kiss into her hair before leaning his cheek against the spot. Her left hand finds his right one and squeezes gratefully, and they sit for a few more minutes like that, basking in the last of the warmth of the summer sun, before they are forced to get back on solid ground when the roof becomes too cold.

 

 

 **iii.**  

He breathes a little easier when he finally makes the connection. Promises are pretty much the same as the engagement rings he's learned about from textbooks on the Ark. They mostly glossed over it in school, considering their lack of importance in a world that valued air over materialism, and Earth is turning out to be a whole new experience in more ways than one. There is actual courting going on now, like in the stories he's always told O, and no one has to worry about the air supply or how many children to have. People are honest to God in love.

It's kind of awesome.

It's also a little bit hysterical to see how the hundred and the rest of the arkers integrate this new piece of information into their society. He never thought he'd see the day where Monty was actually being courted, much less him misunderstanding the rules completely.

It's like a vow, Lincoln explains one day over dinner. When you choose the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you make them a gift with your own bare hands and present them to your chosen, who will then have the choice of declining or accepting the gift. Only one Promise is allowed per suitor, and it is apparently very normal for the prettiest grounder woman to have several Promises to choose from, but she could never make one herself. Lincoln's Promise to O had taken him a good six weeks to make, mostly because it was kept hidden from her, and she still wore it proudly around her neck when it wasn't locked away safely in a box when she was out on grounder business.

Bellamy still has trouble holding back laughter at the memory of Miller presenting Monty with a bag of carrots from the garden he had helped set up and sow in a corner of the camp behind the greenhouse (“Does that count?” he had asked curiously, to which his brother-in-law had shrugged and grinned). Monty, not knowing what to do with a bag of carrots, and Miller, being absolutely clueless on how to be romantic despite actually having been in a relationship before, had parted awkwardly, and he had thought that was that. Two weeks later, Monty had presented Miller with a new beanie his mother made for him, and Monroe had found this hilarious and doubled over, close to sobbing with laughter, while Harper drug poor Monty to the side and explained, and Miller had taken the beanie and proceeded to pull it as far down his head as was deemed acceptable to hide his failed courting attempt and the flush that was taking over his face. Lincoln had nearly choked on his food when he laughed as Bellamy told him the story, but everyone survived, and the two idiots who didn't know how a Promise works moved into their own tent four months later.

“It's ridiculous.”

Surprised, every head at the table turns to look at Murphy, expressions varying from confusion to curiosity, one face in particular showing mild outrage. Bellamy chances a look at Emori, whose careless smile is gone. She is like Lincoln and Octavia, desperate to spend time outside the walls of camp Jaha when the closeness becomes to suffocating, but she is also as tied to Murphy as Miller is to Monty, and she has been accepted into the fold with ease. Her face shows signs of regret now however.

“It's not ridiculous, it's romantic.” she counters. Murphy snorts and takes another sip of scalding vegetable soup, ignoring her as she continues. “It's respectful.”

“Respectful?” The spoon clanks into the bowl. “It's primitive!”

“It's primitive to let the woman choose for herself who she wants to marry?”

“Of course it's primitive, Em! A marriage is a partnership, not a dictatorship!” Murphy practically yells. Emori is staring at him, her face a mixture of fear, recognition and more regret, and something that looks like sadness. She opens her mouth to say something, but Murphy holds up his hand, gets out of his seat and more or less stomps out of the dining hall. An awkward calm settles over the table while the rest of diners try to ignore the scene that has unfolded before them, and it's difficult to try and avoid the grounder woman's gaze. Bellamy carefully looks at her again, and she's staring back at him almost defiantly, as if daring him to share the secret he knows. He feels Clarke place her hand in his under the table, thumb tracing circles on it. He gives a tiny shake of his head, and Emori gives an almost imperceptible nod in return.

No one needs to know what happened to Murphy between Mt. Weather and now, the only people worthy of the secret already carrying it on their shoulders. He'll take it to his grave.

He closes his eyes that night and feels his memories bleed together with Murphy's. The cage, chains biting into his skin, strung upside down, so much blood, black and red, Hedas and pretenders with dark and inviting hair twisting around them like vines, screaming in tandem with one another, offering up themselves to protect the ones they love, abused and bruised beyond recognition, until the pretender finally falls and the Heda regains her throne, but not without the cost of innocence. He wakes slick with sweat to find Clarke sitting over him, the flap of his tent door open and billowing in the night breeze.

She whispers soothing words of calm into his bare skin, and his arms can barely hold his weight so he shifts closer, and she lets him dig his fingers into her back where they will bruise and leave marks for days, tears drying on her shirt as she holds them both up. He wakes up the next morning with his head resting on her chest, limbs wrapped around her body, her fingers tangled in his hair.

A day after that, Emori decides it's time to breathe.

Lincoln and Octavia make up their usual trio, and Bellamy is worried when Murphy is nowhere in sight to see them off. Emori however, is unfazed, if slightly disappointed if the look on her face is anything to go by, and their eyes meet briefly before she's on her horse and out of the camp like there is a fire behind her. His jaw snaps shut in something like disbelief when his family doesn't stop her, even if he knows why they don't. They embrace and say their goodbyes, and he turns on his heel and heads towards Murphy's tent immediately. He's not inside, and Bellamy feels frustration taking over, taking trips through the camp to find his friend.

It's still weird to think of him as such, when years ago all they wanted to do was kill each other. Still, there is a mutual respect, now based on the bruises they reluctantly share, and the promise that they take care of their own. Murphy is his people, hell, his incredibly weird surrogate step cousin twice removed if that mattered, but he's part of his responsibility, and the fact that Bellamy hasn't found him after an hour has the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Leave it to Clarke to know exactly what he needs and when, he figures, when he sees her approaching him from the door of the the medical bay.

“Murphy is missing,” he explains, and he sees her brows knit together in confusion.

“He was on guard duty last night.”

“His tent is empty, and Emori just left.”

Together, they take another trip around the ever expanding camp, making sure to check every official spot, and a few unofficial ones, behind the Ark where it's just a little too easy to slip away without being seen, and that dip in the architecture that one of the kids quickly turned into a secret hole that leads into the Chancellor quarters. By nightfall, they reluctantly agree to look for him in the morning, despite the fact that they both know he doesn't want to be found. Bellamy has trouble falling asleep, and the nightmares threaten to overtake him all night, leaving him fitful and restless in the darkness until he gives up and goes outside. Clarke is on her night shift in the clinic, doing inventory and yawning in greeting when he enters, and she doesn't question him when he plops himself into a chair in the corner, pulling out a copy of a worn out book that is falling apart at the seams and starts reading. He doesn't remember himself falling asleep, and his head snaps up awkwardly and slams back against the wall when he hears a familiar shrill voice cut through the silent morning.

“Where the _hell_  have you been!?”

Scrambling to his feet quickly, the book falls to the floor and actually does come apart, as he rushes out of the medical quarters and towards the open gate where Murphy stands with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, bag slung over his shoulder and looking perfectly fine and decidedly bored with Clarke. Bellamy strides up beside her just as he hears Murphy telling her to _calm down, Mom, I'm fine, geez_. Their eyes lock.

“Great. Dad's here too.” He raises his hand in mock celebration. “Yay.”

“Get in here before I drag you in.”

“Nice to see you too,” he grins, ignoring the audience that is forming around him and strolling inside the camp like he owns everything, paying a classic homage to his early dropship days. Bellamy is damn close to seething rage, but he forces himself to confront the dickhead later, signaling to the guards on duty to close the gate before heading towards the dining hall for breakfast. It's a quick affair and he's pretty sure he's burned his taste buds, but he washes the oatmeal down with a glass of water and is out of his seat immediately, hot on Clarke's heels as they head towards Murphy's tent. Of course, he is nowhere to be found again, and he can practically hear Clarke boiling over, storming out of his tent and towards the workshop to find their favorite mechanic.

They find Murphy fishing little pieces of scrap metal out of his bag.

“Where were you yesterday?” Clarke asks sternly. Murphy has the decency to look up at her, possibly in acknowledgement, but otherwise ignores her comment, placing his findings on a cleared table that is usually reserved for the casual tinkers and fiddlers. Bellamy hears her breathe deeply through her nose, imagining her counting to ten in her head.

“Murphy, answer the damn question,” Bellamy all but barks, and Murphy slams his hands on the table in reply so the pieces rattle. They both jump.

“Look, I don't need my wannabe parents tag-teaming me, OK? I went to the dropship to find something, I spent the night, and now I'm back. I'm fine, I'm alive, and everything is just peachy.” He looks at them both expectantly, one eyebrow raised, and Bellamy somehow finds his rage vanishing just as quickly as it had come, seeing Clarke more or less deflating beside him, relaxing her stance into something more casual. The silence stretches on for another minute.

“Are we done here? I've got things to do,” he declares, turning his gaze away from them and down to the pieces before him, but he is more staring than moving. Clarke shoots him a worried look, and Bellamy finds himself approaching the table slowly, like one would a wounded animal. Murphy seems lost in thought, fingers clenching into fists where they rest on the tabletop.

“We were worried,” Bellamy says slowly, because damn him, they were literally up all night wondering where he was, and he had to know that people were concerned for his well being. Murphy nearly bristles, and his fists slowly unclench, like it takes all the strength in him to do so.

“Well, here I am.” He turns his gaze to Bellamy, eyes unreadable. “Is that it?”

“You know it's not.”

“Thought so,” he snorts, turning his attention back to the table. It throws Bellamy off a bit, how the man before him can act like nothing is wrong so quickly, but he reminds himself that they all do it every day of their lives, all of the remaining hundred. They've bled, died, fought to keep what is theirs and they pretend they're fine when everything is said and done, pretend their nightmares are only shadows and their fears are only child's play. It's sickening how normal it feels to hide your true feelings so often behind different masks of indifference and ignorance.

Raven chooses that moment to show up for work, pausing momentarily in the doorway to take in the unfamiliar scene. He can only imagine what they look like. For one, Murphy is in the room where Raven works. Willingly.

“Reyes,” Murphy greets indifferently, seeming to regain control over his strange project. “You got one of those welding things, or should I just melt this over the fire?” Bellamy's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, turning to look at Clarke, who tugs up her shoulders in response. Raven looks suspicious for a second, before crossing the room to stand across from him, peering at his choice of building material.

“Melt,” she declares, already moving to the back of the room to find something to work with. “I assume you've got a mold you want to use?”

They leave the room before the conversation becomes weirder, and Bellamy's head is practically spinning by the time they are outside. Clarke is looking at him with wide eyes, and her hand slides up his arm to grip his bicep. Her hand feels warmer than his skin, and it occurs to him slowly that his own skin is cold and clammy. When did that happen?

“You OK?” she asks quietly, and he nods, forcing himself to take deep breaths, still confused as to what is actually happening. He tries to identify the hollow feeling inside his chest that somehow weighs more than his entire body, while Clarke drags him by the hand to a spot outside the workshop where chairs and tables make up an outside dining area. She pushes him into a seat and tells him to put his head between his knees, and he feels himself laughing while doing so, caught up in the absurdity of her request. Who puts their heads between their knees? What purpose could his head probably have down there?

He mutters a thank you from his position, feels her hand on his back slowly move up and down, and his breathing evens out after a few moments.

“What the hell was that?” he asks more to himself than her.

“Panic attack probably,” she says quietly. He looks up and catches her eyes; She's looking at him the way she does when he wakes up at night in terror, and once when she had thought she had lost him after... He feels another wave of dizziness creep up on him, closes his eyes and doesn't understand why Murphy's indifference bothers him and reminds him so much of his former self, and she's there immediately, hands on his face and smoothing her thumbs over his rough unshaven cheeks. He feels her lean her forehead against his, and they both take a few breaths together, syncing together like they always do everything, like partners, like one person, and it feels easy and normal. He doesn't want to open his eyes and break the spell, and from the way he feels the insistent press of her fingers he gathers that she doesn't want to either.

The laughter of children running past break them out of their thoughts, and he starts a little under her hands. Their eyes meet as they draw away from each other, and her face shines bright and golden when she sees him calm and steady again, and he feels as though his heart could burst. She's too good for him.

“Thank you,” he smiles, and her own turns shy and modest. He removes her hands from his face and takes them in his, holds it between the two of them, stroking her soft skin. She ducks her head, cheeks turning rosy, and it's the most adorable thing he has seen in his life since O showed him her first baby tooth, and he chuckles a little as he pulls them to their feet. Her hands stays in his, and her question is written everywhere on her face. His expression softens into something semi-serious, and he's hoping that his eyes give everything away. “I'll be fine.”

“Good,” she nods, giving his hands a gentle squeeze before letting go of him, moving across the camp towards her tent. She sends him a wave before ducking inside, and the corner of his mouth tugs upwards, until he remembers that he left his now ruined book back at medical, and he groans, trudging slowly towards it.

His family returns to camp two days later, Emori in tow, and Murphy is there to welcome her.

He's been surprisingly quiet while Emori was gone, aside from a few snarky and well placed remarks and his odd behavior in the workshop, but now he is off to the side, backed into a corner of the entrance by the gate where he's visible from inside, but not outside. Bellamy briefly considers calling on him to stand by him, but the look on Murphy's face tells him that even from a distance, it's best to leave him be. The gates open and Bellamy feels his smile widen as he takes in his little sister half asleep in the saddle. He does not skip towards the them, _does not_ , helping her down from her horse, and she drops thankfully into his arms, burying her face in his chest and mumbling gratitude and a wish for a bed. He laughs and glances at Lincoln, who's only got eyes for his wife, and deposits the now barely standing woman into his embrace.

Emori is off her horse when he turns again, and she's looking for Murphy. Her dark eyebrows are trying to connect and she's worrying her lip, turning and finally spotting her target in his abandoned corner. Bellamy sees her relaxing immediately, and she takes steady steps towards her lover, enthusiasm evident in the way she walks. He tries to ignore them to give them their privacy, which is difficult now that he has moved closer to the gate, and he can theoretically hear every word spoken.

Murphy's smile is more a grimace than anything, and the side of Emori's face shows her worry as he digs into his pocket suddenly, producing something from it, shiny and small. It glints in the afternoon sun, and he deposits it gently into Emori's now outstretched palm. It closes around the object, but not before Bellamy finally catches a proper glimpse of it, and it's like a slap to the face when he realizes what is happening, putting two and two together.

The bullet is small and grey, with flecks of black.

It's evidence of the irreversible damage he has caused Raven back when they were all so young, only children, and a testament to his days as a delinquent without mercy or rules. Atonement, probably, but also a sign of his humanity, and a show of just how vulnerable he really is. He's come so far, seen so much, and suffered from the hands of so many without having a say in the matter, and his Promise to her is the trust that she won't be the same as everyone else, that she will take care of the life she now holds in her hand. It nearly makes Bellamy dizzy again, and he watches in something not unlike awe as Emori pockets the bullet and places her hands gently on the sides of Murphy's face, leans in and kisses him softly on his lips, cheeks, eyes, forehead, chin, everywhere she can reach, murmuring bilingual affection to his shivering form.

_My love, tombom, heart, beloved, hod..._

He is spellbound when he feels Clarke take his hand in hers and lead him quietly away from the intimate embrace.

 

 

**iv.**

He is a fucking idiot.

There is no other word for it, and he knows it in the way she is looking at him, one golden eyebrow raised while she holds his Promise in her hands. With the help of Lincoln, he has managed to procure the recipe for seven different paints from Tondc, and they may not have ended up exactly how he wanted them, but he still proudly presents the box of small jars to her, watching her face as it scrunches up in confusion when she opens the lid. His own smile fades a little, and he is chastising himself six ways from Sunday when she finally speaks.

“You got me paint?”

“Do you not like paint?” he retorts, mentally smacking himself.

“Of course I like paint, you dumbass,” she snorts, closing the box and hands it back to him, clearly amused by the whole situation, “but I don't have a canvas or anything to paint on. And it's not like I actually have the time to paint.” She says the last part with regret in her voice, and he adds another mental slap for good measure. Canvas. Of course.

“Just trying to be nice,” he mutters, and she tilts her head to the side, a soft smile playing on her lips. She huffs a laugh at his pouting face and leans up to press her lips to his cheek, fingers wrapping around his arms to keep her steady. Her kiss is still burning on his skin when he makes it back into his tent and gently deposits the box on the floor next to his cot. He'll have to remember to ask for materials next time Lincoln is in Tondc. Maybe he could make a sketchbook. A few brushes as well. He scribbles it in the margin of his own makeshift notebook and shoves it back under the furs that make his pillow, ducking out of his tent again and heading towards the gate to get ready for guard duty. She is waiting for him when he gets off late into the night, a tin cup in her hands.

“Brought you coffee,” she says almost conspiratorially, and he takes a grateful sip. His gratitude lasts about a second before he spits out the burning liquid, sputtering a knee-jerk grounder curse that he has unfortunately picked up from O and her ever growing vocabulary. Clarke definitely recognizes the words, eyes widening comically as she takes back the cup.

“It's scalding hot and it tastes like dirt,” he coughs, willing himself to ignore the hurt expression painted on her face. If his taste buds hadn't died before, they certainly have now, and he almost sticks his tongue out in hopes that the wind will numb it.

“It's supposed to be hot, genius,” she mutters, and this time he does stick out his tongue, grinning when she reaches out for it and lets it slip back in with a weird pop that makes her double over laughing, cup spilling from her hand and onto the ground. They both giggle as the dirt-coffee trickles out of the container and soaks into the ground, colouring a patch of grass in a weird brown hue, the liquid giving off a shine in the moonlight and the flickering flames from a torch near the gate. “I think I can hear the ground melting,” she laughs, and it makes no sense, but he's laughing too, and they're both children again, carefree and stupid and without worry, and it nearly brings tears to his eyes. He's still chuckling to himself when he slips into a deep sleep, the only thing haunting his dreams being the quiet giggles from the tent next to his.

The next morning he sees Harper braiding Monroe's hair outside the dining hall, and he wonders how to approach the subject with Clarke next. She didn't go for the paint, probably wouldn't even do so without a sturdy surface to paint on, so he'll have to get creative.

He figures any small idea is better than none, and sets off towards the workshop to present his idea to Raven, who grins knowingly at his suggestion and tells him that it can definitely be done. It takes him a while to figure out how best to go about it, but finally he just says to hell with it (out loud, scaring a few unknowing delinquents playing chess), and leaves camp, heading into the woods. He comes back less than an hour later with the perfect branch, thick and sturdy, and he's chopped it so the length is more or less from the tips of his fingers to the beginning of his wrist. Raven approves his choice of wood, and he sets to working his ass off for the next few days, shaping and polishing and carving and _sandpapering_ for crying out loud, but finally he is done, and he is giddy when he finally presents her with her very own handmade hairbrush. It's frankly quite hideous, with no order between the little knobs made to tangle out her locks, but he doesn't care.

“Are you trying to tell me something here?” she asks curiously, and his gaze automatically goes to her hair, which, if he's being honest, looks less like a bird's nest and more like a lion's mane. He shrugs in reply, and she chucks the hairbrush at him while he laughs. He knows she's not offended, but she probably won't accept his gift either, and he makes a mental note to immediately stop thinking of gifts that have to do with her appearance.

When he comes back from guard duty next Tuesday there's a shirt on his bed.

Curious, he lifts it up and holds it out in front of him. It's a faded green, and frankly, it looks comfortable as hell, but he's pretty sure he will never fit into it. Still, he gives her the benefit of the doubt, which lasts approximately half a minute when the shirt stretches to accommodate his size, stopping just under his rib cage and exposing his belly, sleeves ending shy of his elbows and uncomfortably cutting off any circulation in his arms. Plus, she has apparently chosen the most itchy fabric mankind has ever created. He tells her as much when he throws the shirt in her face later, interrupting her from a busy day of reading and doing inventory. Her jaw dropped, she holds out the now stretched shirt and there is a delicious flush crawling over her skin.

“Did you use your own measurements?” he asks before he can stop himself. She mumbles something unintelligible and pulls the shirt over her tank top, rolling up the sleeves and going back to work. He snorts and picks up the book he left last time he was there, tries his hardest to hide his laugh behind his hand when she keeps scratching at her arms. He's made it two pages further in when she huffs in frustration and pulls the shirt back over her head and throws it across the room, glaring at it like it's bitten her. He hides his face behind the cover before she can turn her gaze on him, but he's pretty sure she notices his shoulders shaking.

Octavia comes back from official business a few days later with a gigantic sketchbook hidden in her saddlebag. She barely has time to announce her arrival before he helps her off the horse and then off her feet, and she laughs somewhat motherly at his enthusiasm before assuring him that Clarke will definitely keep this Promise from him, handmade or not. Lincoln claps a hand to his shoulder before giving his wife a warm embrace, one hand resting on the belly that has begun to swell slowly but surely, and Bellamy feels his heart stutter at the evidence of new life.

He's planning to hide the sketchbook in his tent when he sees the flap is already open, and he approaches slowly, briefly entertaining the possibility that someone is most likely looking for him. One of the kids maybe. He finds her bent over his notebook, staring at the last written page, the one with his latest plans for her. Hearing his steps falter, she gives a little squeak and slams the notebook shut, stuffing it back under the pillow, looking guiltily up at him with the bluest eyes he has ever seen. He can't even bring himself to be the slightest bit annoyed.

“Surprise?” he says carefully, handing her the sketchbook gingerly. She takes it from him, glides her fingers over the wooden cover, opens it up and flips slowly through the blank, rough pages. Then, she closes the book with an audible snap, abruptly stands from her seat on his cot, and shoots out of his tent with an indecipherable look on her face.

_The fuck?_

Before he has time to react, he hears rustling from the tent beside his, and she is back in his tent a moment later with her arms full of a massive pelt. She throws it over his cot, and it covers all of it and half his floor too, all black and brown and made up of what must be a couple of bears. He's fairly sure his mouth is hanging open.

“Surprise,” she confirms, a nervous smile etched on her face, head tilted back to look up at him as she stands so awfully close. He does not gulp, thank you very much. He's had his suspicions that she was working on a Promise just like he, what with the godawful coffee and the shirt from hell, and there is no way that the pelt is her own doing, but he doesn't care about anything but her standing there, taking his hands in hers and squeezing them gently, standing on her tiptoes to be just a little taller... It's practically enough to make him see stars. He would tell her as much, but all he can think of is the gentle press of lips against his, and he is not sure who initiated it, but he doesn't care. They've spent so long dancing on the edge of each other and working their way back something that resembles their old partnership, that it really doesn't matter who gave who a Promise and who made it with their hands and who didn't, only that they both accept wholeheartedly. He takes her in his arms, presses her closer to him, and they disappear inside each other for a while, coming up for air when they need to, until she finally pulls away from him a little, mumbling something about dinner.

They get back from the dining hall an hour or so later, having survived expected jesting from friends and family, and set to work immediately. Raven, ever the engineer, has provided them with directions to ensure their now combined tents are water and snow proof, and they push their cots together in one corner, a wooden table and stool decorating the other. The gigantic pelt covers their bed completely, and the box of paints rests patiently beside the sketchbook on the table.

“We're really doing this?” Clarke asks then, as they lie facing each other beneath the furs, hands tugged up between them. He studies her hopeful face, and he can see the trepidation and fear behind her eyes as brightly as if someone shone a nightlight into his face, but it doesn't scare him.

They've come so far since the first time they met.

He remembers with a small pang of regret the way he treated her in the dropship days, putting her on a pedestal she most definitely deserved but didn't want to be on. They hated each other with every fiber of their beings, but he still saved her life when she nearly fell into the pit trying to save Jasper, and again when Dax nearly ended both of them. He cried his soul out to her, and she sacrificed hers time and time again in return for not only his, but her people's survival as well. She broke under the weight of their shared crime against humanity, couldn't see the lives she saved for the blood on her hands, and he had hated her oh so violently and mercilessly when she left him behind to work out his monster on his own. He knows now that part of the reason she left was because she didn't want him to see hers. She was damaged beyond repair, considered herself prime grounder material, making Lexa proud with not only her title as Wanheda (God, the name. It's been years, and she stills looks as though someone has killed her entire family when they whisper her title in the villages), but also with her diplomatic ruthlessness. A born leader running towards her destiny.

Then the Azgeda happened, the Skaikru initiation had gone to shit, and war broke out. It had taken blood, sweat and tears, too many sacrifices and too much innocence, but they were all safe. Even Lexa is alive and well, back on her throne and sharing an unusual partnership with Clarke, rooted in deep and mutual affection for each other, but he can't bring himself to be jealous. Lexa has has always been something good for Clarke, something to distract her, to remind her of her inner strength and hold her up, in the same way that Gina, curlyhaired and gentle smile, had been good for him. He sometimes wonders why Clarke decided to come back to Arkadia instead of staying in Polis with her Heda, but when he brings it up she only stares at him like he's sprouting two heads, so he stops asking. Regardless, there is no bad blood between the two women, especially after Clarke has helped the commander recover from a near fatal gunshot wound after an attack made by the Azgeda years ago, and the culprit, Ontari, (a woman that still sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine to this day for more than one reason), has since been executed. Roan kom Azgeda is turning out to be a much calmer, fairer ruler than his mother, and there is peace.

Of course this doesn't help the children who have been broken beyond repair, who have had to watch their every move from the day they were put on the Earth to survive, who are still on edge so much later in the comfort in their own homes.

Miller doesn't have any nightmares that Bellamy know off, but he will zone out every now and again, staring from his post out into the woods, sometimes forgetting to switch with the new guard and ending up on a double shift. Monty sometimes alternates between quiet and manic moods, one day retreating so far into himself that not even Jasper can reach him, the next coming up with six new ideas that will improve their greenhouse. Harper, like Raven, is limping from a grounder wound that has never quite healed, although it's not as noticeable as it used to be. She doesn't like drawing attention to it, and Monroe, proudly sporting a deep scar shaped like a crescent moon around her eye that she claims is her crowning glory with a curl of her lip, is the only one at this point who can tell her to _sit the fuck back down while I get your fucking soup_ , as she had so eloquently put it one afternoon, after a particular tense episode of watching Harper trying to get out of her seat when her leg decided to act up. Raven is making her way slowly towards a brighter tomorrow now that A.L.I.E. has left her head. She knows she'll never walk properly again, and she's still in the process of learning to trust herself, her mood improving, shaping into something warmer, less biting. Her and Wick have started talking again.

Jasper is... better. It has taken a lot of time, a lot of tears, a lot of bruises, but he is finally resembling a human being a little more. His hair is growing out again, and he actually smiled last week when Raven surprisingly found his old goggles while going through another one of her junk piles in the back of the workshop. Maya's death was soul crushing for him, and a drunk suicidal Jasper is frankly more terrifying than all 12 grounder clans put together, though Bellamy would never officially admit that to anyone. Pike is dead and buried somewhere far outside the camp, dead at the hands of the grounders, along with Jaha. No one really knows for certain if Jaha _is_ actually put in the ground, being the enigma that he is under the manipulative hand of A.L.I.E., still out there somewhere. Since they managed to somehow subdue and temporarily eradicate the whole City of Light situation, any and all drugs are banned from anything other than medicinal purposes, including Jobi Nuts (Jasper had pouted at that last announcement – another sign of improvement).

Lincoln and Octavia nearly perished in the war. It still stings to think about.

He doesn't think he can ever feel any worse about his choices then, remembering how he chose to side with Pike in the hope that this could finally, surely protect his people from any and all unknown threats. And then the memories of his warrior sister, _his sister of the Earth_ comes back to him and haunts him, reminding him of the day he almost lost a brother. Her eyes are icy daggers to his chest, and her sword swings towards him in a perfect bow, and he wakes up before he can see his head roll across the forest floor. He's never told anyone this nightmare, and he's never going to. That's his burden to bear.

It's only after the war is over and the City of Light is a distant, ominous memory, and peace has settled over them, that him and Clarke really start communicating again. It's subtle to begin with: making sure the other one doesn't miss a meal, a brief message of encouragement here and there, backing each other up during meetings and official peace talks. He still can't forget her face as it crumbles when she realizes he's chained her to a table in the Ark, left her for Pike to deal with, and despite how far they've come, he knows she still remembers it. It's sometimes there in the way she looks at him, like she can't believe he is actually real, and not some strange hallucination meant to cater to her wishes. It hurts him, of course it does, but he can't say he doesn't deserve it. He sometimes stares too, observing her from afar as he ponders when she'll leave again. Still, they survive side by side, conversing over dinner and slowly opening up to each other, fumbling their way back to each other in the dark because they both know that the only way to do this life is together.

The dam between them finally breaks the first time he hears her nightmare after her permanent return. She's dreaming about all of them when he walks towards their tents after a night shift, mumbling about people on fire and mountains with eyes, and he hesitates in front of his home. Then, making the decision for him, she whimpers a name that sounds an awful lot like his, and he's unzipping the tent flap and tearing into the dark space in an instant, trying to stop her cries from getting louder and waking the whole camp. She's shaking violently, a thin film of sweat covering every surface of her that he can see, and he fears for a moment that she's got a fever or having a fit of some kind. And then she sits up so quickly that they slam their heads together, and he groans painfully as he feels his brain basically rattling around in his skull and trying to settle back down, and there's a ringing in his ears and he knows they are being far from quiet, but all he can focus on is Clarke hyperventilating and mouthing his name over and over. He can't remember who's clinging on to who, but he does remember waking up the next morning with his body halfway outside her cot, her hair in his mouth and half moon imprints on his bare arms. She's more than a little embarrassed at their state of disarray, but still something shifts between them, and they speak easier now, with less barriers. She laughs a little more when he's being an asshole, and he rolls his eyes a little less when she puts others before herself.

He kisses her slowly then, nipping at her bottom lip, and she lets him in with a quiet sigh. Their hands wander, their lips follow, and their breaths form each others names again and again until the raging inferno between both of them swallows them whole, and he waits until he can breathe again before he answers.

“We're really doing this,” he whispers into the crook of her neck, tugging her closer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I tried. I'm pretty sure it came out way more angst than fluff, if any fluff at all, but I had to get this off my chest.


End file.
